Verwandte Artikel zu Bowdrie: Stories

9780553281064: Bowdrie: Stories
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0553281062 ISBN 13: 9780553281064
Verlag: Bantam, 1990

Inhaltsangabe

It was a name that caused the most hardened gunmen to break out in a cold sweat. Chick Bowdrie. He could have ridden the outlaw trail, but the Texas Rangers recruited him because they didn't want to have to fight against him. Pursuing the most wanted men in the Southwest he knew all too well the dusty trails, the bitter cattle feuds, the desperate killers and the quiet, weather-beaten, wind-blasted towns that could explode into actions with the wrong word. He had sworn to carry out the law, but there were times when he had to apply justice with his fists and his guns. They called in the Rangers to handle the tough ones and there was never a Ranger tougher or smarter than Bowdrie.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Our foremost storyteller of the American West, Louis L’Amour has thrilled a nation by chronicling the adventures of the brave men and woman who settled the frontier. There are more than three hundred million copies of his books in print around the world.

Aus dem Klappentext

e that caused the most hardened gunmen to break out in a cold sweat.  Chick Bowdrie.  He could have ridden the outlaw trail, but the Texas Rangers recruited him because they didn't want to have to fight against him.  Pursuing the most wanted men in the Southwest he knew all too well the dusty trails, the bitter cattle feuds, the desperate killers and the quiet, weather-beaten, wind-blasted towns that could explode into actions with the wrong word.  He had sworn to carry out the law, but there were times when he had to apply justice with his fists and his guns.  They called in the Rangers to handle the tough ones and there was never a Ranger tougher or smarter than Bowdrie.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

BOWDRIE RIDES A COYOTE TRAIL

Only a moment before, Chick Bowdrie had been dozing in the saddle, weary from the long miles behind; then a sudden tensing of muscles of the hammerheaded roan brought him out of it.

Pulling the black ­flat-­crowned hat lower over his eyes, he studied the terrain with the eyes of a man who looked that he might live. His legs, sensitive to every reaction of the horse he rode, had warned him. If he needed more, he had only to look at the roan’s ears, tipped forward now, and the flaring nostrils. Whatever it was, the roan did not like it.

­Soft-­footing it along the dusty trail, he approached the grove of trees with wary attention. He let his right hand drop back to loosen the thong that held his ­six-­gun in place on the long rides. There was no change in expression on the dark, ­Apache-­like face except that the scar under his right cheekbone seemed to deepen and his eyes grew more intent.

The trail he followed led along the base of a rocky ridge scattered with trees and boulders broken off from the crest of the ridge and toppled down the slope. The strawberry roan, stepping daintily, walked into the trees.

“Hold it, boy.” He spoke gently as he brought the horse to a stand. A few yards away lay the sprawled figure of a man.

He sat his horse, his eyes sweeping the area with the attention of one who knows he may have to testify in court and would certainly have to file an account of his discovery.

The man beside the trail was dead. No examination was required to demonstrate that. No man could take a bullet where he had taken this one without dying. Also, he was lying on his back with the sun in his eyes.

No tracks showed near the body except those of the dead man’s horse, which stood nearby. From the size of the hole in the dead man’s chest, the bullet had gone in from behind. Bowdrie turned in the saddle, measuring the distance, and his eyes found a large ­brush-­covered boulder some fifty yards away.

The killer had not taken any chances. Chick still sat his horse. The killer had been smart to take no risks, as the man on the ground was no pilgrim. His was a ­good-­looking face but one showing grim strength and the seasoning of many suns and the winds from long trails. He also wore two guns, and there were not many who did.

Bowdrie walked his horse closer, careful to disturb no tracks. He noted the chain loops hanging from the strap button of the dead man’s spurs, looking from them to the horse, taking in the ornate Santa Barbara bit and the elaborate ­hand-­tooled tapaderos that hooded his stirrups.

“California,” Bowdrie said aloud. “He came a long way to get killed.”

Dismounting, he walked over to the horse. It shied a bit, but when he spoke it hesitated, then reached for him with its nose, cautious but friendly.

“Your rider,” Chick told himself, “must have been all right. You certainly haven’t been abused.”

He scratched the horse on the neck, his eyes taking in all the details. The rawhide riata suspended from a loop near the pommel attracted his attention.

“Eighty or ­eighty-­five feet, I’ll bet! I’ve heard of ropes like that. California, you were a hand!”

Texas riders stuck to hair ropes ­thirty-­five to forty feet long and they worked close to a steer before making a toss. It needed an artist to handle such a rope, but he had heard talk of the California vaqueros who used ropes this long.

Walking over to the dead man, he went through his pockets. Dust was heavy on the man’s clothing. He showed evidence, as did his horse, of riding far and fast. The horse was a tall black, heavier than most Texas cow horses, and was obviously ­well-­bred and carefully trained. He was a horse who could stand long miles of hard riding, and by the looks of him he had done just that.

“Riding to see somebody,” Chick guessed, “because from the look of you, you never ran from anything.”

Making a neat pack of the man’s pocket belongings, Chick tucked them into a hip pocket. Then he took the dead man’s guns and hung them from his saddle horn.

The nearest town was too far away to carry a body, and there would be coyotes.

“I mean the ­four-­legged kind.” Bowdrie, like many a long riding man, often talked to himself. “You’ve already run into the ­two-­legged kind.”

He found a shallow place where the ground was not too hard, dug it out a little with a stick, and laid the body neatly in the trough he hollowed. Covering the rider’s face with his vest, Chick scraped dirt over him, caved more from the bank above, then piled on juniper boughs and rocks.

When he swung to the saddle again he was leading the black horse. Starting away, he took a route that led past the ­brush-­covered boulder.

A minute and painstaking examination told him little. He was about to leave when he saw the place where the killer’s horse had been tethered. Something caught his eye and he studied the rough side of the rock, scowling thoughtfully.

The horse had waited for some time, judging by the hoof marks, and evidently had tried to scratch himself on the rock.

Bowdrie gathered several tiny fragments of wood from the rough surface. Dry and hard on one side, they were fresh and unweathered on the other. Carefully he picked off several of the bits of wood, scarcely more than shreds, and put them in a cigarette paper.

Hours later, when the shadows reached out over the little town of Hacker, Chick Bowdrie ambled the roan down the town’s dusty main street to the livery stable. The black trotted behind.

Sitting in a chair tipped back against the outer wall of a saloon was a man who watched his arrival with some attention. As Bowdrie pulled up at the livery stable the man turned his head and apparently spoke to someone inside. A moment later the doors pushed wide and a man in a white hat stepped out and looked to where Bowdrie was stepping down from his horse.

Stabling the horses, Chick rubbed them down with care, fed and watered them himself. A ­stable-­hand, chewing methodically, strolled over and watched without comment.

“Come far?” he asked, finally.

“Quite a piece. What’s doin’ around town?”

“Nothin’ much.” The hostler looked at Chick’s lean, hard face and the two guns. “Huntin’ a job?”

“Could be.”

“Herman an’ Howells are hirin’. If a man’s handy with a ­six-­shooter it won’t hurt none.”

“There’s two sides to a fight. What about the other?”

“Jack Darcy. Pitchfork outfit. Young sprout, but he ain’t hirin’ gunhands. He’s got no money.”

The ­stable-­hand’s eyes went to the black. “You usually carry two horses?”

“It’s handy sometimes.” Chick straightened and his black eyes looked into the ­stable-­hand’s blue eyes. “You askin’ for yourself or gettin’ news for somebody?”

“Just askin’.” He indicated the black horse. “You look to be a Texas man but that ain’t no Texas outfit.”

Chick smiled. “That’ll give you something to keep you from sleepin’ too sound. Somethin’ to think about, Rainy.”

Astonished, the ­stable-­hand stared at him. “How’d you know my name?”

“Pays a man to keep his eyes open, Rainy,” Chick replied....

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Verlag
Bantam
Erscheinungsdatum
1990
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0553281062
ISBN 13 
9780553281064
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
208
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
Buchpark GmbH
gpsr@buchpark.de

Krügerweg 1
Trebbin
Brandenburg
14959
Deutschland